


A Hell of Witchcraft

by faithharkness



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:50:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1320442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithharkness/pseuds/faithharkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is said that Merlin spends the eons trapped in a tree, waiting for the return of his king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hell of Witchcraft

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hurt/comfort bingo at LJ.
> 
> Title comes from Shakespeare’s _A Lover’s Complaint._

Most days, it was the silence that was the worst. Oh, he missed everything; each sense was missed in its turn and with desperate lament, but it was the silence that got to him most often.

Yesterday, though, it was smell. He missed the smell of the forest—clean and pure and ancient. He missed the scents of his mother cooking over their hearth. Simple smells, smells which spoke to the core of who he was. He missed the smell of Arthur’s bed first thing in the morning, after they’d spent the night wrapped up in each other. He missed the smell of Arthur’s skin after he’d spent all day in the sun. He yearned for the smell of Arthur on his own flesh. Complex smells, smells which spoke to the soul of him.

The day before, it was sight he missed the most. In the unrelenting darkness of this prison, he had longed for the flash of sunlight off Arthur’s golden hair. Had been desperate for the exasperated, loving smile that was meant for only him. Had wanted so badly to see the joy in Gwen’s eyes over some small kindness. He would have even settled for the sight of Morgana glowing with magical rage. But, more than anything, he longed to see Arthur hale and whole and safe.

The day before that, he raged and cursed his magic (again) for enabling him to feel the passage of time when he could feel nothing else. He couldn’t even really feel his own magic—and how he missed the sensation of it dancing across his skin. He longed to feel fresh herbs between his fingertips as he prepared a poultice. He would have even welcomed the rough comfort of one of his neckerchiefs. Mostly, he longed for Arthur’s touch. A cuff to the back of the head. A brush of fingers as he handed Arthur his sword. The sharp edge of teeth against his throat. The press of Arthur’s body into his own.

Tomorrow, he was sure it would be taste. He missed taste _so much_. He missed the taste of raindrops on his tongue. He longed for the sharp taste of a berry plucked from the vine. He even desired the flavor of strong mead upon his tongue, though he had no head for alcohol. He yearned for the taste of Arthur’s sweat, lovingly pulled from him through burning passion. The taste of Arthur in his mouth.

But today…oh, today was his greatest torment: the loss of sound. His magic had often spoken to him in the whisper of the trees and the rumbling of the earth, and he missed that counsel. He wanted to hear his mother’s voice telling him she loved him. He longed for the soft cadence of Gaius’ words as he instructed him in the ways of healing. He was afraid he would forget how Morgana and Gwen had sounded when they laughed, bright and free. He was desperate to hold tight to the sound of Arthur’s voice. Arthur saying his name in exasperation. Arthur speaking to his men on the eve of battle. Arthur whispering his name in anguish. Arthur panting his love against his neck.

Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. The whole of his being tied up in one man.

Suddenly, horribly sharp and terribly fast, his senses all came crashing back at once. He threw his hands over his ears at the noise, coughed against the scents of the world and blinked against the piercing light. He heard someone speaking, in that voice he refused to forget, and looked up.

All his senses shifted again, coalescing into his fondest desire. He smiled as Arthur stared down at him, healthy and young. His sword was in his hand, his grip natural and familiar despite the years the king had been without it.

Arthur reached out with his free hand and pulled Merlin out of the tree and into his arms. Merlin held tight, trying to register all the senses at once: the smell of Arthur’s skin; the worn leather of his coat; and the blue of Arthur’s eyes. He tilted his head to steal a kiss, relearning the taste of Arthur’s mouth.

He leaned back in Arthur’s embrace and finally heard what he’d missed the most.

“ _Merlin_.”


End file.
